


The Closet Doors

by Gemma Winchester (PrincessGemma12)



Series: Closet AU [1]
Category: Goosebumps - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Au of a fic, But Not In The Usual Way, Inspired by Stephen King's IT, LGBTQ Themes, Legos, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, but in a "I've been in love with these people for years" kind of way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessGemma12/pseuds/Gemma%20Winchester
Summary: “Some people are meant to be in each other’s lives, for better or for worse, no matter how much shit they put each other through. It doesn’t matter when, or how, or why, but we’re stuck together, all five of us—Amy, Violet, Alice, Chucky, me—we’re all bound together in some weird way, and we’re never getting rid of each other, not really.” - Daniel Carter, “Crossroads.”Or, a “King of Dreams” AU in which our heroes are all teenagers going through teenager things with a good helping of drama.
Relationships: Amy Kramer & Dennis (Goosebumps), Amy Kramer/Alice Carter/Chucky/Daniel Carter/Violet, Amy Kramer/Original Female Character(s), Curly the Skeleton & Slappy the Dummy (Goosebumps), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Slappy the Dummy & Dennis (Goosebumps), Slappy the Dummy/Amy Kramer (Goosebumps), Slappy the Dummy/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Closet AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022463





	The Closet Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crossroads](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288936) by [Gemma Winchester (PrincessGemma12)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessGemma12/pseuds/Gemma%20Winchester). 



> Okay, so, the topic hasn't come up in Crossroads, yet, but it's not really a major spoiler in itself, so I'm gonna explain something about Slappy in my Goosebumps books fics: he isn't just one entity. Slappy is basically the fusion of Daniel Carter, or Blue, and the demon Green, or Chucky, as well as many other names throughout history. They are two different people with their own personalities. Ray Thurston has a similar situation in Crossroads, but his demon isn't a huge character, so I just left him out of the main cast for this fic.
> 
> Now, to explain the character George: he is Dennis, Dennis is George. It stands to reason that the soul possessing Amy Kramer's doll isn't named Dennis, so I gave him a different name.
> 
> Finally, it's important to keep in mind that in this dimension/universe, many entities that have played a role in shaping the modern world of Crossroads (such as Green, Violet, and Curly, just to name a few) are teenagers and living in an ALTERNATE modern world running parallel to Crossroads. For example, in Crossroads, Slappy and Violet's violent excursion inspired the Child's Play series--in The Closet Doors, Chucky, Daniel and Violet didn't even EXIST in the '80s, therefore, Child's Play isn't a thing. Likewise, in Crossroads, Amy got Dennis for her eighth birthday, whereas Closet Doors Amy got a VERY different (and not haunted) dummy, one that's both newer and doesn't have any ties to an evil sorcerer. If you have any questions, please ask me them in comments down below, I'm happy to answer them and clear things up.

**1**

Charles Raymond didn’t remember much from before the age of five, but what he did remember were the pretty flowers always in Violet Gardener’s hair—violets, funnily enough. They seemed to be an essential part of her, and the little purple-blue petals strewn about her flowing blonde tresses made her appear almost goddess-like and accented the deep, purple-blue of eyes. Her eyes were like violets themselves, but with little black galaxies in them instead of little suns, a concept Charles (or Chucky, as most people called him) wouldn’t be able to articulate until he was well into his teen years, well into the habit of social underage drinking. The deep, rich color of the flowers and matching irises made her hair and skin—which always resembled the color of iced coffee—seem paler. It was beautiful and held his attention for hours, even when he was small.

It wasn’t until he had turned ten that he realized that _Violet_ was beautiful herself, as he had never seen her without the flowers’ strange visual effects.

It was their last sleep-over of the summer, on a cool night just before the start of the school year. It was him, George Filch, Daniel Carter, Curly Maitland, Alice Biermann, Rebecca Otieno, and Violet, all camped outside in the Biermann’s’ yard. It was a clear, cool night and they had nothing but a small campfire and battery-powered lanterns to light the damp grass.

Chucky thought the moon looked just a little like a big cookie up in the star-speckled sky. He expressed this to Violet, who was helping him put away the last of the day’s games.

She giggled, a light, bubbly sound that made him blush. “You’re so silly, Chucky!” she fondly, beaming at him. It was only when she shook her head with another laugh that he realized she didn’t have her flowers anymore. The realization startled him and he dropped the ball he’d been holding.

“Where are they?” he asked dumbly.

“Where’s what?”

“Your flowers. Where’d they all go?”

She blinked at him owlishly, then ran a hand through her hair, gaping as if she was suddenly wondering the same thing. “Oh. I guess Alice must’ve brushed ‘em all out when we did each other’s hair earlier,” she murmured. “They’ll be back soon, though. They always come back.”

Charles nodded silently as they stared at each other in the flickering firelight, observing the other curiously. He watched her eyes light up and a new kind of smile grace her angelic face, the baby fat that would cling stubbornly to her cheeks for another ten or fifteen years making her look younger even then. He wondered what she saw in him that made her so happy, whether she was making observations similar to his own.

Her eyes, he realized for the first time, nor the plants that loved to cling to her hair, were not the most beautiful flowers he’d ever seen, despite their loveliness.

Violet was.

“Hey!” Charles whipped his head around in the direction of his friend’s voice. “Are you guys gonna put those away or just stand there?” asked

**2**

George Filch had always loved LEGO. He got a new set for every birthday and every Christmas and played with them every day. He talked about them incessantly to anyone who would listen. He made LEGOinto just about everything he could: houses, cars, trains, people, animals, desk toys, pencil holders, bookmarks, and even table coasters. He’d never met another kid his age—the youthful, magical age of ten—that held the same unique brand of love for LEGO that he did, nor the appreciation for the things one could make out of them. All the other boys his age were making trains and cars, yes, but they had no interest in the multifunctional purpose of LEGO cups held together with non-toxic clear glue and coated on the inside with plastic obtained by melting a cheap plastic cup from Wal-Mart in a pan on the stove.

His mom hadn’t been very appreciative of that little creation either, but that was irrelevant.

That said, none of his family or friends were surprised when he made a functional LEGO skateboard that was, theoretically, good up to about one-hundred pounds. It was even less surprising when he made a boot for his prosthetic leg out of bricks, glue, and a good amount of yarn and scrap fabric. The boot would snap onto his new board, keeping his right foot from slipping off. It went on right over his sneakers and was sized specifically for him, so it fit perfectly and was only uncomfortable if he forgot the insertable sole he’d had his mom make for it. He made a matching one for his real foot not long after.

These creations would bring him a crazy amount of attention and awe from his peers in fifth grade, but more importantly, they would lead to one of the most important days of his life. A day that brought who would be some of the most influential people of his childhood into his life: Curly Maitland, and Charles Raymond.

It was also the same day these two boys entered the lives of Daniel and Wallace Carter, as well as Amy Kramer, who had been long-time pals of George.

The Filch Boy, as many of his teachers called him when conversing with each other, something they all thought he didn’t know about, but he did and he pretended not to care, something he would do with many things throughout his life, was trying out his new boots and skateboard the week after school ended for summer break. The concrete of his driveway was hot with Pennsylvanian summer heat, a welcomed change from the dreary months of snow and rain that spring had consisted of. He strapped his new boots on over his kicks and stood slowly, examining them with a critical eye. He took a few steps this way and that, testing the fit to make sure he had them on right.

“What’cha got there, Georgie?” a melodic, playful voice asked from his left. He turned his head and grinned at the chocolate-haired girl that was standing at the end of the drive, hands tucked behind her back.

“Hey, Amy.” he greeted happily, shoving a lock of unruly brown hair out of his deep brown eyes. “I made a skateboard out of LEGO bricks, and boots to help me stay on. I’m just testing everything out. Wanna help? I could use someone to watch the road for cars for me.”

“Sure.” Amy chirped excitedly, trotting up to him and the brightly colored contraptions. “These are _so cool_.” she breathed. “I love all the colors!”

“Yeah, I guess.” he shrugged noncommittally. “I wanted to make ‘em all orange and white, but I didn’t have enough bricks, and I didn’t have the right rims for the wheels—just these black ones, no orange or white ones, not in the right size.”

Amy mouthed an “Oh” and nodded along quietly, watching as he arranged the board in front of him and stepped on.

“Hold the board for me.”

She grabbed onto each end of it and held tight, wincing as he came awfully close to stepping on his fingers. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, pushing down on each foot to snap his boots on. He wiggled his feet this way and that, testing the hold. _Nice_.

“So, why’d you make a new skateboard?” Amy asked, tilting her head as he pulled his left foot up, wobbling with the force he had to use. He made a displeased sound and pointed to a box on the porch.

“I crashed it. Hand me the rails in that box, please. There are two pieces, both green, I need both of them.”

He pulled his feet from the board and stood next to it, thinking, as she ran to grab the other objects. He muttered an absentminded “Thanks,” and took the rails from her.

“What’re you doing now?”

“Gonna put these rails on my left boot so that I can push without toppling over. This piece goes on the board; this one goes on the bottom of my boot and slides into the other. There are a few grabbers on the toe here, see? Those’ll click into a set of bricks on the inside of this rail, but they’ll come apart easier because there’s more weight and less grabber-things, ya know?” he demonstrated this theory to her, sliding the two pieces together and then pulling them back apart with ease. “It should be just enough to keep my foot from slipping out on accident, though.”

“And this thing’s gonna work?”

“If I put it together right.”

“Woah.”

“Yeah.”

Amy thought for a moment, squinting at her friend’s project, before asking, “Does it

**3**

look okay, Mama?” Daniel Carter asked his mother one crisp winter day, holding up a piece of paper with a big swirling vortex of colors scribbled over it. There was blue, green, yellow, violet, red, and black, and they all met at the center of the paper, where a little white heart was, its lines as perfect as a little six year old could manage.

Grace Carter felt an odd sense of uncertainty while gazing at that picture. It seemed important, something about it seemed _very_ important but she couldn’t figure what it was. Was it the way the heart, with its curled and slightly squiggled lines, looked almost like a cloud? Was it the way the swirls seemed to try to draw in whoever was too weak-willed to resist their temptations as if they were the same swirls hypnotists used? Or was it the colors themselves, the way the crayon blended together and came apart at random, the way each color entwined to form the heart? It wasn’t a bad feeling, no, definitely not, but it seemed to preclude bad feelings, like the pain in one’s joints before a storm hit.

_I won’t be able to protect him…_

The thought was so sudden and frightening that she couldn’t keep it from crossing her face. Her son, so kind and caring under normal circumstances, gazed at her expectantly with ghost-eyes, as if possessed by some force that kept him from truly processing what was in front of him. He was usually so empathetic to her emotions, so quick to decipher her expressions into good or bad feelings, then to compare them to the emotions he knew of and had felt himself. Grace didn’t know what she would be protecting her youngest child from, or, rather, _not_ protecting him from, but she did know one thing, and that was the factual importance of this piece of artwork.

“I think it belongs on the fridge,

**4**

Daniel laughed as his foot slipped off the pedal of his new bike. Well, perhaps _new_ wasn’t the most accurate word. _New_ didn’t describe anything he owned or anything anyone in his family owned. It was a Black Phantom Cruiser, significantly larger than himself, and covered in a thin layer of rust. It was an original straight from a classmate’s grandfather out in Colorado. The once-vivid paint was worn and scratched, peeling in some places. The seat was worn and patched with ducktape, the handgrips cracked and scratching. But it worked like a charm and could take him from the top of their driveway to the bottom in less than five minutes—quite an accomplishment given their driveway was only slightly sloped and about the length of a football field.

He lovingly referred to it as “Blue,” which was also the color he wanted to paint it over the summer.

Today, just a week after school ended, he was racing down Clover Street toward his friend George Filch’s house. It was his first real ride of the year, his first ride on a bicycle he didn’t have to share with his brother, and he wanted to experience the better parts of it with his best friend. He hollered as he rounded the last bend before the Filch residence, his bike in full speed and the wind whipping his untamed brown hair across his freckle-splattered face. He wondered briefly if Amy would want to ride, too, or if her aunt would even let her join in on the fun.

Mrs. Kramer wasn’t fond of her daughter playing “rough and tumble games with those boys.”

Daniel giggled maniacally as he sped down the asphalt, his grand entrance already playing out in his head, his blue eyes twinkling with a delight only children can experience. He just hoped he

**5**

stick the landing?” Curly Maitland asked dramatically, his warm honey eyes challenging as he stared down his opponent.

“Of _course_ he can.” Chucky scoffed, one foot poised on the stack of rocks in front of him, the other set firmly on the much more stable ground the stack was built on. _Of course he can._ he thought frantically, gazing down into the quarry below. The water shimmered and shifted with the breeze, the color varying just slightly between a rich jade and the deep blue. He gulped. His ass already hurt just thinking about doing a cannonball from so high up—it had to be at least fifty feet to the tips of those tiny little waves alone, and another ten or fifteen to the earth beneath the water—and his ears weren’t picking up any sound but the rush of blood in his ears. He felt a pull on his arm and fell back, stumbling from the rocks and the edge and the long, long way down to the water. His heart was racing in his chest and he felt unsteady.

“If you won’t do it, then _I_ will!”

He blinked the memory of the shining water from his eyes and watched, shocked as his friend, Amy Kramer, pulled her azure crewneck T-shirt off and flung it to the side. His eyes immediately went to the thick white strap that crossed her back from one side to the other, and the strange little hooks that held the garment on. He’d never, not in his entire thirteen years of living, seen a girl undress. But it was just Amy—Amy Kramer, who was practically one of the guys, a bro, a—

Her jean shorts dropped to the ground next, and his electric green eyes followed their path, transfixed and confused. He was dimly aware, as he examined her legs and plain cotton panties, of the way his own jean shorts seemed to grow tighter the longer he looked. He forced his gaze to the back of her head, where her long brown waves were held back by a thin ring of elastic and cloth. She removed it quickly, flinging it over in the direction of her shirt as she kicked away her abandoned denim, and Charles caught the quickest glimpse of a lightly freckled shoulder, always the pale color of a latte’s foam but now a rich pink, before she grabbed the rope, climbed the rocks, and swung herself forward with all her might.

Charles had always thought that only Violet would be able to make him feel so warm and confused, but as his eyes followed her path out and down, down, down, he came to the conclusion that

**6**

we’re lost, aren’t we?” Chucky asked, rolling around him in wide circles as he stared between the tall street sign in front of him and the one that seemed miles behind them, just a barely defined sliver on the other end of the road.

“No, no, we’re not _lost_.” Curly stated firmly, desperately, eyebrows scrunched together and forehead creased. “We’re just… a little turned around… is all.”

Chucky scoffed, his skin flushing with frustration and the heat of the day. “Just fuckin’ admit it,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“We’re _not lost_ , Chuck, we just need to…” Curly turned to look down the street, a thoughtful wrinkle between his brows. “I think we need to go farther down this street, then turn onto a… it’s, like, ‘Witch Hand’ or ‘Wish Hand’ Street—I’ll know it when I see it.”

As his best friend—and Chucky was, by far, his best friend—rolled away from him, Curly set his board back down and placed his right foot onto it. He pushed off down Clover Street and turned just a little to coast to the other side of the road. “Hey, Chuck?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry

**7**

I just don’t understand what’s wrong!” Alice cried, wrenching her arm from her father’s tight grip. “Please, _tell me_!”

“It’s a _sin_ , Alice May, and a right damning one, too.” Mr. Biermann firmly, anger flashing in the cool blue ponds behind his thick-rimmed spectacles. “A young man—or any man at that—can’t love another man like _that_. It’s unnatural, it’s _sinful._ The Bible specifically says that a man _shall not_ do with a man the same things he does with a woman—that means _sex_ , Alice May, that means _kissing_ , and—”

“But Danny and Chucky don’t kiss like you and Mama kiss—it’s not a husband-wife kiss, it’s just a friend kiss, Daddy, I promise!”

“What—?” Mr. Biermann removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose. “Honey, what on God’s beautiful and cherished earth are you talkin’ about?”

Alice’s face flushed with frustration and she willed the feeling away. It was not good to be angry or feel negatively toward one’s parents. She was to honor them, always, even in her mind. She took a deep breath.

“A friend kiss is just that, Daddy: it’s a kiss you give your friends to show them that you love them. It’s not like the long, huggy, lip-kisses you and Mama give each other, their just quick and usually on the cheek—”

" _Usually_?”

“Sometimes we miss or the person we’re trying to give a kiss turns their head or something…” she shrugged and cocked her head. Much more quietly than before, Alice said, “Daddy… Danny and Chucky are good boys. You know they are.”

Her father wiped his glasses on his shirtfront and knelt down to her level before placing them back on his face. He looked her up and down, a calculating look in his eye. “Alice… Are you a good girl?” he asked at length, earning a sound of confusion from his only child.

“I…” she squinted at him, as that would make his question make more sense to her. “I… I think I am, Daddy. I don’t see how I couldn’t be, but Chucky says I’m not always the smartest—he says it’s ‘cause I’m ‘sheltered,’ whatever that means. But… I think I’m a good girl, Daddy, I really do. I try my best to be and everyone always says that I am, so I’m gonna have to say that I am, at least until proven otter-wise.”

Her father smiled and hugged her to him tightly, brows furrowed. “It’s pronounced _other_ wise, honey, _other_ wise.”

“Oh, _other_

**8**

way.” George muttered.

“Huh?” she asked dumbly, staring up at him.

“It goes the _other way_ , Amy. Turn it around,” he instructed, gesturing with his hands wrapped around his helmet.

“Oh, okay,” Amy breathed, doing as she was told. “You sure this is safe?”

“About ninety-percent, yeah.”

A flower of worry tried to root and bloom in her chest, threatening her ability to draw in air. She pushed it down as far as she could and did her best to dig up all of the roots and the bulb. She gulped past a dry throat and sighed shakily. “Okay.”

“Alrighty, let’s—” George placed his foot onto the board and snapped the boot in place, helmet fastened so that the strap just barely pushed into the skin of his jaw, but he didn’t make to kick off even when Amy had moved out of the way.

“George?” she could feel the bulb bursting with a new seedling behind her rib cage.

He didn’t answer, his warm eyes narrowed in focus and darting back and forth from one end of the street to the other. She said his name again, standing beside him to grab his arm. The seedling grew like a weed—it _was_ a weed, one that matured and spread quick as a burrow of rabbits. She shook his arm roughly and followed his eyes.

“Uh-oh.”

“ _Watch out!_ ”

Amy made to yell out the same as Daniel and George, but the two boys zooming down the road toward each other were far too close to move out of each others’ way. She watched as the two boys, Daniel and a boy she’d never met before, crashed into each other with frustrated, pained shrieks. There was a frightening cracking sound and George was rushing forward to find its source, only to be shoved away violently by the stranger. Another boy came rolling up as he and Daniel disentangled themselves from the wreckage…

And it was wreckage, that Amy could see clear as day. Daniel’s bike was ruined, the

**9**

rest of the group watched their friend bob up and down in the water like a stick before she disappeared under the surface, her long brown hair the last to disappear from view.

Alice crossed her arms over her chest, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She avoided her other friends’ eyes as they all looked from Amy’s clothes to where she had disappeared under the water. Amy rose back up about ten feet away, arms breaking first and her head following. Alice’s blue eyes found Violet’s, a silent conversation that the boys weren’t privy to. They had both seen the way Chucky looked at Amy. It was the same way he looked at Violet sometimes, and they knew it wasn’t okay.

For the last few weeks, Violet and Charles had been “dating”—or what the group of ten, twelve, and thirteen-year-olds _thought_ was dating. In other words, they would hang out at each others’ houses without anyone else from the group, would walk to and from school, the quarry, the park, and other places together—sometimes just the two of them, other times lagging behind the rest of the group. As far as anyone knew, they hadn’t had a “boyfriend-girlfriend” type of kiss, yet, though Alice insisted that they wouldn’t until they were _much_ , _much_ older because “Only grown-ups have those kinds of kisses.”

Neither of the girls was naive or uneducated in Understanding Boys—they knew what that look had meant, why Charles’ electric green eyes had clung to Amy’s body like a wet swimsuit. He _liked_ Amy, apparently, and that wasn’t okay. Alice knew it, Violet knew it, Chucky knew…

But none of them were bothered by it. That was weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t Violet be

**10**

here in a few minutes?” Amy asked her mother, Rosemary.

“Yes, Amy, yes, she’ll be here in just a few minutes, now stop asking me!” Mrs. Kramer snapped, waving her hands in a vague direction toward her youngest daughter.

A few minutes. Amy had _a few_ _minutes_ to make sure she was presentable.

_Okay, Amy, calm down. It’s just Violet, there’s no reason to be so anxious._

But there was reason to be anxious, she realized. Violet had left town for the summer before high school, and no one had seen so much as a picture from her since. She was fifteen, no—sixteen, and the whole group knew things changed for some people at that age. It was like some weird threshold where people either changed dramatically or stayed virtually the same until the end of high school. No one except the Gardeners knew whether V had stayed the same or not, and Amy was dreading the answer—not because she was afraid of not liking Violet anymore, but because she was afraid Violet wouldn’t like _her_ anymore.

She couldn’t imagine how Chucky felt about it.

“Amy go get the door for your friends!” Mr. Kramer called from the master bedroom.

“Okay!” she answered, jogging to the front door and swinging it open.

Three of her four best friends stood there, each taller than her by at least two inches, and all wearing the biggest smiles she’d ever seen.

Chucky was in the back, as always, half-turned away from them with the sun glinting off of his grandfather’s dog tags, which hung around his neck. His eyes were brighter and more lively than she’d seen in weeks, and now that light was shining on her, pinning her. His deep green sleeping bag was slung over his shoulder, the fabric case long since lost in the recent tidal wave of new clothes that had entered his life and bedroom. Amy noticed that he was wearing a new pair of jeans—a _brand new_ pair of jeans.

Danny and Alice stood side-by-side right in front of him, the blonde on Amy’s right and Dan to her left. They were holding hands, fingers entwined and almost white with how tightly they were gripping each other, their faces flushed with excitement. Their blue eyes—one set as light and vivid as the sky on a clear summer’s day, the other a deeper, mysterious cobalt—were aflame and pulled her in warmly. Their sleeping bags were both being held by Danny, who was hugging them to his chest like giant teddy bears.

Behind the trio, leaning against a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in the Kramers’ driveway, was Violet, their previously-missing puzzle piece. She was tapping away on her phone, a hand-me-down from her cousin, and didn’t look the tiniest bit like their V. Her long hair was pulled up into a messy bun, her feet were covered only by the few straps of her sandals, and she was wearing the tiniest pair of black shorts Amy had ever seen on her before, with a crop-top to match. She was twisting a strand of hair around her finger absent-mindedly.

“You gonna come hug me or just stare, Kramer?” she quipped, her eyes glinting in the sunlight.

Amy rushed over, giggling, and threw her arms around the shorter girl.

“I fucking missed you.” the blonde whispered, voice choked with emotion.

“I missed you, too, V, I missed you, too.” Amy pulled back, arms still hanging around her friend’s waist. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> If there's anything you'd like to see these guys get up to, I'll try to work in whatever fits. Also, let me know which references you caught, there are a few of them!
> 
> P.S., this is the longest chapter I've ever written for a fic, so please tell me how I did.


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